Monday, April 3, 2017

She wasn't a dancer but she liked to let the music move her. She would escape to a field on the outside of town and listen to the music all around her. The wind blowing through the grass made a deep whooshing, the pitter patter of animal's feet beat like tiny drums against the ground, and the shrill soprano of birds whistling pierced the air. It was as if He were orchestrating a symphony just for her.

She would spin and twirl, the wind tossing her baggy clothes to and fro. She was a beautifully free ball of chaos exploding from within herself. All of her went in different directions as she moved with reckless abandon, caught up in the moment, and doted on by the Creator of the very ground upon which she danced.

She said nothing and yet she worshiped. She offered nothing and yet it was enough, She was alone and yet she was held close. She moved with clumsy grace and I am madly in love with her.

Who I Am

Writer. Radical. Former addict sabotaged by extravagant, scandalous, excessive grace. I believe in a God who does big things in small people; the God of royal shepherds, fearful warriors, and rebel pastors.